Borderlines. Michela Wrong

      ‘This road is so quiet now,’ commented Abraham. ‘In the old days there were hundreds of commercial trucks heading to the coast and back again. The truckers always drove like idiots. I lost friends on this road. Now the other side refuses to use our ports and the only way you can have an accident is from boredom.’

      But soon it stopped being boring, as the tarmac disintegrated and Abraham fought the road, swerving to avoid giant pot-holes carved by winter rains. At times, he lost patience and simply drove off piste, munching thorn bushes below the bonnet, bouncing off gravel banks and furrowing riverbeds whose sands were as soft as fudge. Yet whenever another vehicle appeared ahead – usually an army truck – I noticed that respectability returned, and two vehicles that had been plaiting wildly rebellious courses always observed the decorum of passing on the right.

      For what seemed like hours, we stared at a red dot shimmering on the horizon, the only patch of colour in the drab landscape. Abraham slowed as we approached. A battered old Fiat was drawn up on the roadside, its hood up. I realised that there was human life in the shade of the thorn bush next to the car. An old woman was holding a toddler, waving flies away with a straw fan. Her wizened husband, swathed in white, sat half in the shade and half out of it, one brown hand holding out a giant gold kettle. His face was expressionless.

      Abraham braked, reached into the back for a jerry-can of water and got out of the Land Cruiser. A few words were exchanged as he filled the old man’s kettle. I was astonished when he returned to the Toyota and pulled away.

      ‘Hey, wait, Abraham, not so fast! Shouldn’t we give them a lift? Where are they heading?’

      He looked at me in surprise. ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘But they could die of thirst. This is the middle of nowhere. We should take them somewhere.’

      ‘They were not asking for a lift, Paula. They were asking for water. I gave them what they asked for.’ I stared anxiously into the Land Cruiser’s side mirror as the red dot receded into the distance, but no one leaped from the bushes, hollering for our return.

      By the time we reached Transit Camp, Eastern, No. 3, the air-conditioning was working as furiously as the heater had a few hours earlier. Abraham parked outside the gates, and as he switched off the ignition I realised that the metallic buzzing I’d assumed to be generated by the engine was part of the great outdoors: a cicada chorus. I took a slow breath, quietly dreading what lay ahead, then reluctantly opened the door. The heat was absurd. I laughed in disbelief, waited instinctively for the assault to pass, then realised it never would. The sweat glands in my armpits and groin began to prickle.

      ‘Where first?’

      ‘The camp administrator, Sammy. I remember him from the front – a funny man, good singer, so we called him Sammy Davis Junior. He will know everything.’

      ‘Not UNHCR?’ I asked, pointing to what was clearly the refugee agency’s office, an air-conditioned container. A small mountain of empty water bottles had collected next to it. ‘To be polite?’

      Abraham grunted in scorn. ‘Their job is to hand out tents. That’s all they know how to do. And we do not need to be polite. If the UN had done its job in the first place, we would not be in this mess.’

      ‘Winston said that, whatever happens, we should try to avoid accepting a meal. Ribqa gave me some packed lunches.’ Winston’s exact words had been: ‘Personally, I find it mortifying to see a refugee family slaughtering their prized goat to fatten a well-fed Westerner.’

      Abraham shrugged. ‘We can try. We will fail. Hospitality is part of our culture. These people have nothing, but they will insist on sharing that nothing with us.’

      The administrator’s tent was at the camp’s high point, the path to its door marked with whitewashed rocks and a row of lovingly watered oleanders planted in recycled cooking-oil tins. To the north we could glimpse the molten coast, a biscuit-coloured blur whose horizon shifted and melted in the heat, making it impossible to distinguish sea from sky. To the south stretched the IDP camp.

      A blue haze of wood fire rose above a giant, pixelated canvas of blue and white rectangles, a gaudy mosaic whose tarpaulins surreally brought to mind funfairs and candy floss. It gave off a rich, steady murmur. It was the sound, I realised, that all cities would produce if traffic was removed, a complex, constant hum which contained within it the metallic clink of saucepans being washed, the comforting pock of wood being chopped, the bleat of goats, barking dogs, babies wailing, adult chat, bursts of laughter. I felt my tense, hunched shoulders relaxing. Of course. How melodramatic of me. An IDP camp was just another type of community.

      ‘Your first refugee camp?’ asked Abraham.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘How does it seem?’

      ‘I expected worse, to be honest. Squalor, wailing, that sort of thing.’ I gave an embarrassed laugh.

      ‘Losing your home doesn’t mean you lose your dignity.’

      ‘So I see. It seems very well organised. Big, though. Makes clear the disruption the war caused.’

      ‘They have kept the original villages intact,’ Abraham said, and my eyes followed his finger. This was an emergency city with distinct neighbourhoods, the tents arranged not in functional rows but in clusters. ‘All the camps are like this. It’s easier that way. Everyone knows who is who and what their role is. And it means when the word comes they are ready to go back.’

      Go back? They would only go back if we won the case.

      Inside the tent a small delegation was waiting, drinking tea and fanning themselves with UNHCR registration forms. Under the tarpaulin, the shade smelt of old rubber and was as hot as soup, but at least it was shade. Greetings were exchanged and introductions made, warm Fantas and Cokes extracted from a crate. Abraham and Sammy leaned in to one another, bumped shoulders, then patted and held one another in a comradely way that I guessed represented recognition of shared battlefield experience; the rest of us made do with respectful murmurs and rapid intakes of breath. I was trying to work out why my handshake with Sammy had felt slightly peculiar, when he reached to scratch an eyebrow. Two fingers were missing. He noticed my glance and held out a maimed hand, showing pink stubs. ‘I was too slow throwing a grenade. Not this war, the last one. It’s been a long time since I could blow my nose.’ Hearty laughter from the men. The women in the group looked either uncomprehending or slightly awkward. But the joke had broken the ice, and everyone seemed to relax.

      ‘Your colleague told us yesterday that you wanted to interview people from Sanasa,’ said Sammy. ‘Most of the IDPs come from there, so you will not be short of candidates.’

      ‘In fact, you could talk to anyone here,’ added a bearded young man in a blue and white checked shirt. He had introduced himself as George, the camp doctor. He was handsome, with the lean ranginess of youth and huge brown eyes. He spoke perfect English, but with a distinctive twang – Australian, South African? – that reminded me of someone.

      ‘That’s wonderful,’ I said, quailing. I hadn’t expected it to be so hot. Large damp crescents had formed under each arm, and as I reached for my Fanta I could feel wet flesh separate and glue itself back together. Abraham’s upper lip was beaded with sweat, I noticed with some satisfaction. At least I wasn’t the only wimp. ‘Maybe we should start. I don’t want to waste your time.’

      Sammy shrugged. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. The one thing IDPs have plenty of is time. Your visit is the most exciting thing to happen in the camp this week. Everyone has been looking forward to it.’

      A gaggle of children had already gathered at the tent’s door flap, mouths open in wonder. One tiny girl, a small finger exploring a nostril, was wearing what must once have been a Western housewife’s cocktail dress, which dropped to her ankles and fell open at the side. The boys, whose heads had been shaved to leave a single central forelock, wore oversized shorts belted with packing twine. Sammy swirled and barked at them, mutilated hand raised, and they fled, squealing. Even as he turned to face me again, they were edging back